Pushing Baltimore
by detective-sweetheart
Summary: No matter what, they were always pushing, for evidence they needed, answers they wanted, the people who saw first hand what happened before the police came along to solve the case.


**A/N: Yay! An H:LOTS fic! Cardinal Robbins, LSM, this one is for you...H:LOTS isn't mine. If you look hard enough, you'll know who the woman is that Munch is talking to. **

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"Constant struggle," she says, and he looks at her for a long moment, before shaking his head.

"It would be easier if people could get a life," he replies. "Then again, I suppose we have no room to talk, considering the fact that we have no life."

"That's not what I meant," she says. "What I meant is that it's a constant struggle to find the answers. It's like there are no answers."  
Silence falls between the two of them for a long moment, broken only by the sounds of the city. It's quieter than New York is, he thinks, and looks sideways at his companion.

"How's the fugitive squad treating you?" he asks, and she looks back at him, shrugging.

"It's not the first shift, but it's something," she says. "I'm just not sure exactly what that something is."  
He nods, slowly, because he had the same sort of issue when he went to New York in the first place. But Special Victims is nothing like Homicide; he was looking for a change, and he found it. And now he's Homicide again.

"You ever wonder what would have happened if Gee had never decided to run for mayor?" he asks. She looks at him for a long moment and shrugs again.

"I think he would've made captain eventually," she says, quietly. "I think the department would've finally pulled their heads out of their asses to see that he didn't belong anywhere else but Homicide."

"The greatest one of us all," he says, and she gives him an amused look, shaking her head.

"You haven't changed a bit," she says, and then, "How's New York treating you? They learn how to ignore your ranting yet?"

He laughs. "Got a new partner," he says. "He doesn't talk to me much. Guess he's one of those types that keeps everything personal out of the squad room."

"Yeah? What happened to that kid Cassidy?"  
"Transferred to Narcotics. Couldn't handle the victims. Can't say I blame him; he was pretty young."  
"Guess you've gotta be pretty experienced then, to handle sex crimes, huh?" She trails off for a moment and sighs. "You know, I didn't think you would come back."

He gives her a startled look. "What made you think I wouldn't?"

"The fact that you left in the first place. Knowing you'd run into that basket case of an ex-wife. Meldrick and Tim being a pain in the ass about the Waterfront. Lot of things."

"But most of all the fact that I left in the first place, right?" He looks at her over his glasses, then, and she looks back at him, trying and failing to keep a faint smile off her face.

"Yeah, that," she says. "Heard Meldrick put the call in. Didn't expect to hear back, much less actually see you."

"Thanks," he says, dryly. "Nice to see I'm still so loved around here."

"You're still a murder police, you know. You might leave, but sooner or later, all of us are gonna end up coming home."

"Home being the original first shift?"  
"Every last one of us. Felton, Crosetti, Bolander…"

"You, me, Tim, Frank, Meldrick….

"And Gee."

"The good old days."  
That they were, he thinks. The good old days. Before Crosetti's suicide and Felton's murder and Bolander and Pembleton's retirements and everything. Before Gee's attack, which had now become Gee's murder.

"Funeral's in a little bit," he says, and she nods, staring down at the city beneath them, the city that they've nicknamed over the years 'Charm City' and the 'City that Bleeds'.

"Too much blood on the streets," she says quietly. He nods, in reply.

"Yeah," he says. "Too much blood."  
She sighs. "Why does it always feel like no matter how hard we try, we never get anywhere? We never get the answers we're looking for."  
"Maybe we're not looking hard enough," he says, and she gives him a look, shaking her head.

"Maybe we're looking too hard," she says, and then, "It feels like pulling teeth, sometimes. Every time we have to go out there. No one trusts us. No one wants to give us answers."

"No one wants to get hurt." he tells her and she shakes her head again.

"No one wants to think that the police get hurt, too," she says, and he gives her another sideways glance before speaking again.

"Well, that's kind of our job, isn't it?" he asks. "To take the initial hurt. To have to see what we do, and edit it so that it doesn't seem as bad for the families?"

"Wish someone could edit it for us," she mutters, and he offers up a faint, half-hearted smile.

"Too bad no one can," he said, and then, "We're always going to be pushing for the answers we want, the evidence we need, the people who see things…"  
She smirks, and the expression is a bitter one. "Pushing Baltimore," she says, and he nods, without another word.


End file.
